Read Online The Ring of Death by Sally Spencer - Free Book Online

– above all – so civilized.
    And that was exactly what he was – on the surface. But underneath that well-tailored suit and immaculate grooming there lurked a dark savage beast that knew no pity or remorse – that would do whatever was necessary to get its way.
    She hated this man, she despised him, and – though she would not admit it, even to herself – she was also, perhaps, a little frightened of him.
    The chief constable stood up. ‘Ah, Monika,’ he said, with a false heartiness which revealed just how uncomfortable he was with the situation. ‘I believe you already know Mr Forsyth, who works for the Ministry of . . .’ He paused and looked down at the other man. ‘Which ministry did you say?’
    â€˜Just the ministry,’ Forsyth replied, enigmatically.
    Baxter ran his fingers through his mop of ginger hair.
    â€˜Mr Forsyth would like a chat with you, Monika,’ he said awkwardly.
    â€˜A chat ?’ Paniatowski repeated.
    â€˜That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’ Baxter asked the seated man.
    The corners of Forsyth’s mouth crinkled into a half-smile. ‘I believe what I actually said was “a cosy chat”,’ he replied.
    â€˜So if you’ll excuse me . . .’ Baxter said, still addressing Forsyth.
    â€˜Of course,’ Forsyth agreed.
    Baxter crossed the room in one direction, his chief inspector in the other. As they met in the middle, the chief constable gave Paniatowski a look which said that the last thing he wished to do was leave her alone with Forsyth, but the matter was out of his hands.
    Paniatowski kept on walking towards the coffee table. She didn’t want to do it. What she wanted to do was turn around, leave the room, and not stop until she was outside the building and could gulp in some clean, fresh air, free of Whitehall poison. Yet there was no choice in the matter, and on legs which were tingling so much they might almost have been trembling, she forced herself to continue until she came to a halt next to Baxter’s chair.
    Forsyth did not stand up and offer her his hand, though it was not any lack of manners which had prevented him from doing so. Like everything else about him, his manners were impeccable, and what held him back was the knowledge that if he offered her his hand, she would not take it.
    As the chief constable stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him, Forsyth said, ‘Do please sit down, Chief Inspector.’
    Paniatowski sat, because, she told herself, not to do so would show Forsyth just how disturbed she was.
    â€˜As if he doesn’t already know!’ she thought, angry with herself.
    Forsyth reached into his briefcase, and produced two silver hip flasks and two small glasses. He placed the glasses on the table, unscrewed one of the hip flasks and poured its contents into the first glass.
    â€˜Single malt,’ he said.
    He unscrewed the second flask, and poured the clear liquid into the second glass.
    â€˜Vodka,’ he told her. ‘Zubrowka.’
    â€˜Am I supposed to be impressed by that?’
    â€˜ I would be, in your position. Many experts consider Zubrowka to be the finest vodka in the world, and I happen to know that it’s your favourite tipple.’
    â€˜You know that, do you?’ Paniatowski asked.
    â€˜For a fact,’ said Forsyth, with all the certainty of a man who was never wrong, because if he was wrong, the rules were quickly re-written to make him right . ‘Yes, your favourite tipple. But you can’t get your hands on it often, can you, Monika – because it’s very much in demand with the bigwigs in the Polish Communist Party?’
    It was all games with this evil bastard, Paniatowski thought. And the frightening thing was that, half the time, they worked.
    Forsyth took a sip of his malt, and smacked his lips appreciatively.
    â€˜You’re not drinking,’ he